


Come Full Circle

by Sharpiefan



Category: Show the Colours (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-11 00:21:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5606548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharpiefan/pseuds/Sharpiefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Returning home and looking out for someone else...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Full Circle

  
**Title:** Come Full Circle  
**Fandom/Canon:** Show the Colours  
**Author:** [](http://sharpiefan.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://sharpiefan.dreamwidth.org/)**sharpiefan**  
**Word count:**  
**Rating:** PG for swearing (blame the parrot!)  
**Spoilers:** None  
**Pairing/Characters:** George Thompson, Lil Baker, Fingers Smith  
**Disclaimer:** Fingers Smith is the property of [](http://barefoot-bard.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://barefoot-bard.dreamwidth.org/)**barefoot_bard** but I've borrowed him for a happy ending so I hope she'll forgive me  
**Author's Note:**  
**Summary:** Returning home and looking out for someone else...  
  
It had taken some delicate organisation and some persuasion, but Corporal Thompson had succeeded where Private Thompson probably would not have, and had wrangled an afternoon's leave to coincide with the sailors' being discharged having been paid off. He had appointed himself guardian of the young Fingers Smith – there was no question the lad needed someone to look out for him and nobody else seemed bothered about what might happen to him.

Thompson's womenfolk doubtless wouldn't appreciate being lumbered with the kid; Heaven knew they found it hard enough to make ends meet as it was, of course. But Thompson knew that the lad could make himself useful, and a life on the streets with people watching out for him would be a far cry from life on the streets with nobody to care.

Thompson didn't think Fingers would ever find his way into the Marines, somehow, but that didn't matter. He had a lad of his own name who'd more than likely make his way into the Corps. Fingers was too much a sailorly type, too free and easy, to take well to the discipline needed in the Corps. But that was all right; Thompson could easily pay for him to be bound apprentice somewhere, if that's what he wanted. Or he could make his way to sea again as a sailor – easily done from here. If nothing else, Lil Baker would probably take him on as a pot-boy – it was just the sort of thing she would do if Fingers could worm his way past her prickly exterior.

"This'll be just like home afore you knows it, young'n," he told the barefoot youngster as they passed the Red Lion tavern with its awkwardly painted sign and made their way down the narrow cobbled street that was Red Cat Lane. "Bet it's nearly like home anyways," he added with a grin. "Easy enough to lose folks as don't know their way round, once you know all the yards an' alleys – I was near gripped by a pressgang when I was a bit older'n you, an' lost 'em easy 'cause they wasn't local." He turned down an alley that was even narrower than the lane they'd just left.

"Proper warren, this all is," he said. "This's Black's Lane, an' that's Polly's Yard, goes through to May Court, an' then you can slip through to Jarndyce Court an' back to Red Cat Lane. Or go through Cat Passage to Bonny's Yard an' down to Bell Lane for the Eight Bells." He shrugged and grinned at the boy's bewildered expression. "I daresay you'll get used to it, a quick-witted lad like you," he added with a laugh, and steered him round another corner. "Darget's Court, then Margery Row an' the Ropemaker's Arms," he said. "It's jus' round the corner from the Burnin' Thistle in Thistle Alley, that goes down to the river."

The wooden houses all looked dilapidated, their once-white paint flaking and peeling. Panes of glass were missing here and there from windows, the gaps stuffed with straw and dirty rags or covered with old sacking. It smelt, too, the reek of privies overlaid by the sharp tang of seaweed and the pervasive smell of damp, possibly even rotten, wood.

It wasn't a pleasant smell – hell, it couldn't really be called a pleasant place, but it was home.

"You need some'ers to go," Thompson said. "Better'n headin' all the way back up to London, an' if you want to make summat of yourself, I knows folks round here who'll take you on, learn you a trade that'll be useful to earnin' you a livin'." He grinned. "Be a sight better'n dippin' an' risking gettin' caught doin' it."

There were bargemen who'd be glad of an active nipper to help, for one; Thompson couldn't see Fingers willingly staying on land nowadays. Or there were the folks at the Gun Wharf who might like a nimble young boy who knew something of the gunner's trade.

That the Ropemaker's Arms was used by some of the local women to bring their customers to didn't bother Thompson; if they weren't going out to the ships in the river, they still needed to earn a living. He knew that, it didn't bother him – he'd been used to it from his earliest days and almost his first memories were of his mother entertaining sailors or soldiers, or marines. It'd be a roof over the lad's head, at least, and folks who'd look out for him – even grudgingly, out of a sense of duty and because it was Thompson who'd asked them.

He pushed open the low door of the Ropemaker's Arms. "Mind the steps as you go in," he cautioned the boy, putting a hand on his thin shoulder. "C'mon, then." He grinned. "They got a parrot in here'll swear its head off for a drop of ale or rum, if it ain't dropped off its perch yet."

"Really truly?" The first words Fingers had spoken to him since they'd scrambled out of the boat at the New Stairs.

"Really truly. Bad-tempered sort of thing, but it'll swear blue murder at you for a bit of ale or a few crumbs." He kept his hand on the lad's shoulder, directing him across the dimly-lit taproom towards the bar. He was aware that his idea very much depended on other people, but they'd be far less likely to turn him down flat in front of the nipper – and anyway, once they saw the nipper in question, they'd be far less likely to turn him down anyway than if he didn't have the kid in tow.

This was probably something that Major Cartwright would say showed his measure, or something, too, but Thompson hardly cared about that. It was simply the right thing to do, the sort of thing nobody had done for him at the same age – and having to scrape together coins to cover half the nightly rent hadn't been easy without someone looking out for him to give him a half regular wage.

"I'll have a pint of bitter, you got'n in, Lil," he said, and pulled the lad forward. "An' a half for the kid.” He grinned. "He won't be drinkin' all of it – I bin tellin' him about old Stormy, if he's still here."

"He's here all right,” Lil replied, and gave a sharp whistle. There was a blur of wings and the old barrel hoop hung over the bar swung as a green parrot landed on it.

"Fuck off an' bile y'r 'ead," it informed them shrilly. "Where's me drink, gal?"

"Coo," Fingers said, awed.

Thompson laughed. "Hold your tankard up an' let him have sippers of it."

Fingers did so, rewarded by a stream of dirty language.

"The nipper's Fingers, Lil," Thompson said, leaning on the bar and resting a foot on the brass rail that ran its length a few inches above the floor. "I was hopin' you or Mum'd see fit to take him under your wing – he's a good kid, don't mind a bit of hard work. He just needs lookin' out for 'cause he ain't got nobody else."

"I ain't a flamin' charity, Georgie Thompson, me lad," Lil said, giving him a hard look.

He shrugged, unfazed. "Ain't askin' you t'be. He'll earn his keep, an' if he wants to be 'prenticed to any o' the trades hereabouts, I'll pay for his indentures, properlike – if you'll vouch for the man he goes with to be straight an' not treat him ill like some of 'em'd do. I got me prize money put aside, I can spare a bit for the nipper."

"Georgie Thompson, I declare you've gone soft in the head," Lil said. Thompson noticed the look on her face as she glanced at the boy.

"I'm goin' into barracks an' he's bin paid off. He ain't got nowheres else, if so be you an' Ma won't. I ain't askin' you t'do it for nothin'. He can bring in a penny or two hisself." He leaned forward. "He bin a dipper an' a good'n, he can do that if he can't do anythin' else, though I'd rather you found a good man I can 'prentice him to. Mebbe one of the bargemen – if Young Timmy's still on the river, he might take him?"

"There's worse places he can go than with Young Timmy." Lil sighed, relenting. I'll see what I can do – don't get Stormy drunk now, will you, nipper? Though he ain't fallen off that perch yet."

Thompson raised his tankard. "Knew I could count on folks. You'm a good lass, Lil."

"Georgie..." she said warningly.

"I ain't said anythin' that ain't the truth." He shrugged. "I'd get him to take the shillin' an' come into barracks with me, but he'm a sailor bred an' borned, wouldn't take to the Corps any better'n they'd take to him. He'll be all right on the river – fresh air, hard work, Young Timmy's yarns..."

"Well, he'll be able to kip here for now, we'll see about it later on."

Thompson slid a shilling across the counter to her. “Knew I was right to bring him here."

"Jus' don't go bringin' me any more street arabs, we got enough of our own,” Lil said, palming the coin as Thompson winked at her. “Seems you'm goin' to be stoppin' here for a bit, young'n,” she said to the boy, who looked up, round-eyed.

"With the parrot an' all?"

She grinned, unable to help herself. “With the parrot an' all – though if you repeat anythin' of his filthy language, I'll larrup you so 'ard you won't sit down for a week!”


End file.
